by Jane Henry
Or, what if they don’t believe me to be his fiancée? What if they take one look at me, short and curvy with blonde hair that hasn’t even been professionally highlighted, a young woman with no real career, and wonder to themselves No way, un huh is that Darius’s fiancée. Or, how did he end up with her?’
How could they not?
Certainly, they’ll at least think I’m some gold digger, after him for his money. Engaged, with plans of a prenup and a lavish wedding followed by a brutal divorce after which I steal half of his wealth. My chest rises as I heave a sigh so loud that it wakes him.
Yawning and stretching, he pulls his arm from me. “Something wrong? Why aren’t you sleeping? I’d think after the night you’d had you’d be passed out.”
Should I tell him the truth, or play tough? Who am I kidding? Tough isn’t in my nature.
I take a deep breath and go for broke. “I’m... worried. What if they don’t like me? Or figure out we’re not really engaged?”
“Is that what has your brow furrowed in that cute way?” My heart pitter-patters in my chest. Oh, I like this side of him.
I look down at my left ring finger. “I mean, look. I don’t even have a ring.” I waggle the lonely little plain finger.
“Hmm. That is a problem.” Darius shifts in his seat, pulling something from his right pants pocket. He holds it up to me. It’s a red leather box with gold swirling words on it: Bachman’s Jewelers. “I ordered this from New York for you. It’s the finest jeweler on the East Coast. I have a friend there who helped me pick the perfect ring.”
He hands me the box to open.
As I hold it in my hand, my fingers begin to tremble. He bought me a ring?
He nudges me. “Go ahead. Open it.” He seems eager to see my reaction, his gaze hanging expectantly on my face.
I don’t know why, but I close my eyes as I flip open the lid. When I pry my eyelids open, I find a princess-cut sparkling diamond cushioned between two smaller diamonds, set in a silver band. I know nothing about jewelry, but the center rock, it must be over three carats—and flawless to the naked eye.
It’s gorgeous. Exactly what I would have picked if I was shopping for my fairytale dream ring. A fantasy come true.
I’m too afraid to remove it from its box fearing my touch will tarnish it in some way. “But it’s fake, right?”
Fake relationship, fake ring. He loves me not.
Ignoring my question, he takes the box from me, slipping the ring from where it's nestled in its little cushion. “Here, let me.” Gently, he takes my left hand in his, and slides the ring onto my finger.
It’s a perfect fit.
I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. All I can do is twist my finger beneath that little overhead light and watch the rainbows shoot out from the world’s most beautiful diamond. Finally, I find my voice. “This... this is for me?”
“All for you, babygirl. And it’s one hundred percent real.” He leans over, giving me a kiss on the cheek.
My heart wells in my chest, elation fills me. Not only am I now the proud owner of the world’s most beautiful engagement ring, he picked this out just for me. I sneak a glance at him out of the side of my eyes. He’s staring down at my hand, a content, pleased look on his face.
Wait... what’s real? I’m letting my imagination and my hopeless romantic heart get ahead of me. It’s a real diamond. That’s it. It signifies nothing. It’s really just a prop, to keep people quiet.
Right?
Is it possible that he likes the look of his ring marking my finger as much as I do?
I’m so happy, tears of joy are welling in my eyes. But, a moment later, my world comes crashing down with his next statement. “I had to get a real one if we’re going to convince people we're really engaged. My ex can spot a cubic zirconia fake from a mile away.”
My heart falls straight into my Jimmy Choos. “Your... ex?”
He scowls, the old grumpy Darius making a sudden return. “Yeah, I’m sure she’ll make an appearance at one point or another.”
There’s no time to ask questions because we’re beginning our descent. Somehow take-off and landing always leave me nervous, my knuckles white as they clutch the arms of my chair.
We survive the landing, but I barely survive my first taste of humidity as we step out into the Georgia air. Vegas might be hot, but it's a dry heat. This is... intense. My breath catches in my throat and even though I can’t see it yet, I know… my hair instantly shrinks up into a frizzy halo of curls with humidity like this.
This is not a good look for me.
At least my ring looks pretty as it sparkles under the sunlight—even if it is just a pretty ring with no significance, just to impress his ex.
I swallow back my jealous, ugly thoughts. It’s only my own insecurities causing me to question his feelings for me. Right?
There’s a private town car waiting for us at the curb, of course. The driver, dressed in a three-piece suit, rushes from his vehicle to gather our bags for us. Darius opens the door, and I slide into the backseat.
He’s got the privacy partition up before the driver even returns from loading our luggage. Kissing my neck, he whispers into my ear, “I’d like a taste of Georgia peach right about now.”
I flush. But I’m not his Georgia peach. Am I?
I’m just the girl he’s brought here to appease his grandmother. His fake fiancée. His kissing continues, and though I feel heat rousing between my thighs, I place a hand on his chest, stopping him.
For the first time since we’ve met, I deny him. “I’m a little tired. Can we rest a bit?” My conscience pricks me. I did sign that contract.
He pulls away. He looks disappointed and slightly peeved to be rejected. “Is something the matter?”
I can’t bear to tell him of my insecurities, so I smile and shake my head. “Just nervous, that’s all.” I smile. “Um... maybe we should play the get-to-know-you game before we arrive so we can be sure we pass as a couple?”
He raises a brow, unconvinced my plan will be more fun than the entertainment he had in mind. “Get-to-know-you game?”
“Sure. You know. Just little things that we should know about one another.” I dive right in. I really want to be prepared. “I’ll start. What’s your favorite color?”
He sits back in his seat, thinking. “Red. But not the bright fire engine type, the darker one, like you find in an apple.”
“Okay. Mine is pink. But not the bright one you find on the stripper g-strings on the strip. The light one you find in cotton candy,” I tease.
“You know what strip clubs are like?” he raises a stern brow at me, and my heart stutters.
I laugh. “Um no. You?”
He shakes his head, but his eyes are still narrowed. Is that a little jealousy I spy? “I wouldn’t know anything about that. I don’t frequent strip clubs.”
“But you got me from an escort service?”
“My first. And my last.” He leans over, kissing my forehead.
It’s a sweet gesture, one that makes me melt. And yet, it brings up my insecurities again. What does he mean? How does he really feel about me? I push the thought away, enjoying the light, fun banter between us. “Okay, next question. Favorite animal.”
Over the course of the hour-long drive to his grandma’s house, I find out his favorite animal was an old pug that died last year. His name was Elvis Presley and he’d had him since he was eighteen.
In addition to the multiple breaks to his leg from his football injury, he also broke his arm when he was seven and again at eleven, falling from the same tree both times. He loves steak and potatoes but despises sweets. His favorite season is winter—he likes the cold and his favorite time of the day is when the sun sets over the city.
He doesn't watch television unless it's the news, and he only reads business articles or nonfiction. He hates injustice, lazy people, and people who have no manners. He loves the elderly even though they can be crass, and children, which I found surprisi
ng.
And his confession has me envisioning what our kids would look like. Would they have my eyes and his height, or his eyes and my blonde curls?
We pass farms and fields as we move further into the country. Everything out here is so green, so lush, compared with the dry brown of back home. I guess there is one plus for such a humid environment: the plants really seem to thrive.
The houses grow further and further apart, and I’m waiting for us to pull up to some dilapidated whitewashed farmhouse when suddenly, a massive Greek-revival-home-meets-southern-charm mansion appears out of nowhere. There are six huge white columns that reach up to a third story roofline. The home is made of a pale brick that’s almost pink in color, the extensive wide trim painted white, the shutters that encase the giant windows, black.
I can barely speak. “I thought you said you came from humble beginnings.”
“I did. But what grandson worth his salt doesn’t spoil his grandma who raised him when he comes into a little cash. She used to clean this mansion back in the day, for only dollars an hour. She said the man was a mean drunk, and her work was never good enough for him. The moment I could afford it, I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, and I bought it. And it’s Gran’s to live in for as long as she’d like.”
“It’s massive. Fifty people could live here comfortably.” I can’t tear my gaze from the beautiful home.
“And they often do. My grandmother is one of those people who’s never met a stranger. She’s often got people down on their luck, or recovering from illness or a surgery, staying with her. Not to mention, my brother and his frequent visitors.”
“And your ex,” I mumble.
His brow furrows. “What was that?”
This is no time for a deep dive into our relationship. “Uh... sex. I said, I owe you sex, from earlier when I was tired and I’m sure we’ll be able to find more than enough private places to sneak off to—”
He sits up further in his seat, pointing to the mansion. “There’s Rawley.”
The car pulls to a stop before the enormous front porch. I look through the window to see a man that looks very much like a younger version of Darius standing on the top step, waiting for us. His hair is a lighter brown, his eyes lighter as well.
I find I don’t like his smile. It makes me uneasy, like he’s calculating every smile, gesture, or word he’s about to say.
The driver holds open the door and Darius grabs my hand. “Come. You have quite a few people to meet.”
And then he freezes, the smile dropping from his face.
Emerging from behind Rawley is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She has ice blue eyes, wavy, chestnut hair, and a complexion like a porcelain doll. She’s tall and thin, with an ample set of breasts that ride high on her chest. When she smiles, it's like she’s a contestant in a beauty pageant.
One who already knows she’s won the crown.
Chapter 12
Darius
Jesus. That didn’t take long at all. I knew we’d see Tiffany when we returned home, but I never expected she’d show up within seconds of our arrival.
There was a time when I thought she was pretty. Beautiful, even. But now all I see is malice in those ice-blue eyes and vanity in her every perfect feature.
Rawley leaves the porch and trots down the stairs, giving me a massive hug. I pat his back awkwardly. Rawley isn’t a hugger. What the hell is going on here? I don’t miss the way Tiffany holds her head up in the air and looks down her nose at Katie.
“Welcome home, Darius,” she says coolly. “You brought a tagalong?”
My hands ball into fists at the way Katie’s cheeks redden.
“Tiffany, didn’t expect the pleasure of your appearance so soon. What luck.”
Sarcasm drips from my tone like melting ice cream, which only stokes her fire. Her blue eyes narrow and her lips purse, before she ropes her hands around Rawley’s bicep.
“Rawley brought me home for your arrival.”
Rawley looks abashed. “Now, sweetheart, we said we would talk to him later…”
“Oh, but we may as well clear things up soon, shouldn’t we? Seeing as he brought a guest and all.”
Rawley winces and forces a fake laugh. “Well, Tiffany and I are… we’re dating,” he says, his palms pointing upward in a gesture of surrender. I feel as if he’s punched my gut, all the wind whooshing right out of me.
Doesn’t he know what she’s capable of?
“I see.” I give him a cold smile. “Well then, let’s toast the happy couple. You two deserve each other.”
I wrap my hand around Katie’s waist. “Meet Katie.” A note of pride enters my voice, though it shouldn’t. This is only a hoax. Just to get us through this. Even if it feels less and less like a hoax every minute. “My fiancée.”
Tiffany’s eyes narrow to mere slits for a split second before she forces a fake smile.
“Ah, I see. Isn’t that…” she looks down her nose. I can see her icy gaze searching Katie’s left finger for a ring. “Quaint.”
A door slams, and Gran comes stomping on the porch with a broom in one hand and a duster in the other. She’s dressed in old sweats, her hair tied up in a handkerchief, dust smeared on her cheeks.
“Well, look at who the cat dragged in,” she says with a cackle. “And Darius, you brought us a guest!”
She hands Tiffany the duster and broom. “Tiffany, be a dear and dust the mantel while I greet our guests, will you?” She practically shoves her inside. “That’s a girl.”
Rawley purses his lips, but Gran ignores him. I stifle a smile. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She comes down the steps and gives me a hug that’s noticeably weaker than the last time I came. When was the last time I came? It’s her eightieth birthday, and she deserves a party. Still, I have to admit, I’m glad Katie’s with me. It’s odd going home.
She leans in and whispers in my ear, “That girl you brought looks a lot sweeter than the Wicked Witch of the West.” She pulls back and reaches for Katie.
“Well, hello. Look at you, aren’t you a pretty little thing.”
She wraps her arms around Katie, who gives her a warm hug back. My heart melts a little at that. She isn’t abashed or scared, but welcomes the greeting from the woman who raised me.
“Now, tell me this grandson of mine treats you well,” she says, her arm around Katie’s waist. “He might be a big billionaire, but around here, he’s still my boy.”
Katie looks over her shoulder at me, her eyes dancing with amusement.
“Good boy,” Katie mouths at me, teasing.
I narrow my eyes at Katie and make a discreet little swatting motion in the air, in retaliation to her comment, which only serves to make her laugh.
“Is he?” she says to Gran. “You know, I could totally see that.”
Oh, could she? Seems I’ll have to set that record straight later tonight. There isn’t one ounce of boy left in this daddy.
They go up the stairs together, and I’m left alone with Rawley.
There’s an awkward moment of silence but I decline to speak first, enjoying watching him squirm. “I could’ve told you before I… before you, I mean, well, I—”
“It’s fine,” I lie.
He sighs and shoves his hands further in his pockets. “She’s good to me, man.”
Bullshit.
He shrugs. “It’ll work out. We have...an open arrangement in our relationship.”
“A fucking what?”
“Open arrangement.” He shrugs. “No need for monogamy, man. It’s the twenty-first century. I mean, I know you guys had a misunderstanding, but maybe if you weren’t so old-fashioned, things could’ve worked out. Glad there’s no hard feelings.” He slaps my back and heads up the stairs. I’ve never wanted to deck him so hard in my life.
No hard feelings, my ass.
But the clouds shift, and the sun peeks through, illuminating the large, grassy lawn. I breathe in deeply. I’m home, I’ve got a sweet wo
man to warm my bed, and I’ve risen above goddamn Tiffany’s catty shenanigans.
I grab our bags and head inside, intent on not letting Tiffany or Rawley or any of them fuck this trip up. Rawley and Tiffany deserve each other.
The black lacquered door swings closed behind me. I look for Katie, but only see Rawley, who’s wielding the duster on the mantle while Tiffany sits, scowling, her arms crossed on her chest. Good luck with that one, bro.
The gleaming hardwood floors give way to tile as I make my way to the sprawling farmhouse kitchen. Katie’s sitting at the breakfast bar, already nursing a cup of tea.
“Well, that didn’t take long,” I say. I walk over to Katie and kiss her cheek. “You keep Gran out of trouble while I bring the bags upstairs.”
Gran grins and swats at me with the wooden spoon she’s using to stir the large pot.
“Now, you have the room with the white enamel pitcher in it,” she says. “And Katie has the one with the violet door.”
I give her an incredulous look. “Are you serious?”
She looks sternly at me. “I see a ring on her finger, Darius Morrow, but it isn’t the kind that gives you permission to share a room in my house.”
For some reason I don’t quite fathom, Katie finds this outrageously amusing. She buries her face in the teacup to hide her laughter. When Gran turns back to the stove, I give her a warning look. I’ll make my way to her room, and no one will hear her screams when I spank her ass and make her come tonight, in this ancient, spacious mansion.
It’s so different here than the place I call home. The stairs are immaculately clean, the smell of lemon wood polish clean wafting through the air. A large vase of wildflowers christens a little table on the landing, the windows are wide open, and a warm southern breeze makes hand-sewn curtains flutter. My room is adjacent to Katie’s, and I quickly leave our bags before I go back downstairs.
It feels nice sitting beside Katie at the wooden table, and if I admit it, nicer than sitting at the fanciest high-top table in Vegas.
